On Second Thought . . . Brooklyn
On Second Thought . . .
Brooklyn
I am lost in thought when the cabdriver stops in front of the Marriott Marquis and stares at me in his rearview.
“Lady? We’re here.”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” I pull out my card and swipe. The machine thinks for a minute and rejects the card. I try again. Same result. Weird. “Shoot, sorry. Let me try one more.”
I only have two with me—one for all the expenses I anticipated we’d incur, and one debit card backup, just in case. I hate to use it in the cab, but what else can I do?
It, too, is declined. I try my Apple Pay, which has another card, but no joy.
“Your machine isn’t working.”
“Not on me, lady. Worked just fine for my last fare.”
Prickles of unease march down my spine. There’s no reason for the cards not to be working.
“How much is the fare?”
“Forty-five.”
I dig into my wallet for the emergency hundred-dollar bill I always carry.
I don’t usually carry cash; this is a digital world.
I do have a few euros stashed in my suitcase, left over from earlier trips, but we’d planned to withdraw the incidental amount we needed for the journey at an ATM near the hotel in Milan. The exchange rates are better that way.
“Can you break a hundred?”
Grumbling under his breath, the man relents and gives me back fifty dollars. “Keep the rest.” It comes across sarcastic, and he narrows his eyes at me. I have to wake the kids; they still haven’t stirred.
“Come on, guys. We’re here.”
A bellman helps with the luggage, and we follow him to the check-in desk like perfect little ducklings. A perky young woman with jet-black hair in a long, slick ponytail greets us.
“I have a reservation for Brooklyn Locke.”
The woman pulls up the reservation. “Yes, here we are. Two queens, city view. Can I have your license and the card you’re planning to use?”
I hand them over. The woman runs the card. “I’m so sorry, this was declined.”
A slight hum in my chest. Neve pulls on my coat. “Hungry, Mama.”
“I know, sweetie, hold on.” To the woman behind the counter: “Can you just use the card that the room was held with? Margot Thomas made the reservation. That’s my sister. We can call for her to verify that it’s all right to use the card.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the policy of the hotel is to get a card for incidentals and the final charge.”
“I can give you cash to cover it.” I spread the two twenties and a ten on the counter.
“No, ma’am, we need a working card. I’m sorry.” She does genuinely look sorry—even her ponytail slumps.
“Okay, just . . . give me a minute. Let me call the bank.”
Four is drooping. I hand him a granola bar, and Neve takes a bag of cashews. “Hold tight, I just need to make a call.”
“I want Daddy,” Four wails, loud enough that everyone in the lobby looks at them. I hug him to my waist.
“I want Daddy, too, baby. Just hold on a minute, okay? Can you eat your bar and hold Neve’s hand for me?
Let’s sit right here.” I guide them to a monstrous blue suede couch that is far too big for any human, much less two tired kids, and they disappear into it, nibbling their snacks, eyes red and round.
I call the number on the back of the credit card. After identifying myself and giving PINs and passcodes three different times, I’m told that the account was frozen yesterday.
“Excuse me? What do you mean, frozen?”
“Frozen for nonpayment, ma’am. Are you prepared to make a payment at this time?”
“Um, no. Not just now. Thank you.”
What the hell is going on?
I call my bank. It is a Nashville-based cooperative that I’ve had an account with for over twenty years. My agent, Leeann, answers on the first ring, voice cool but with a frantic note underlying the greeting. “Hi. You must have read my mind. I was about to call you.”
“What were you calling me about?”
“You closed the account without giving me a chance to fight for your business. I was out yesterday, and when I came back this morning, there was a notice that the funds had been withdrawn and the account terminated. I thought we had a better relationship than that, so I was calling to apologize and see how we can get your business back.”
“Leeann, I didn’t close the account.”
“But I have your signature on the papers.”
“It wasn’t me. This is going to sound nuts, but can you ask whoever was there yesterday who brought in the paperwork?”
I hear paper shuffling, then her talking, muffled, as if she’s placed a hand over the speaker. A few moments later, she comes back.
“It was Trey.”
“Trey came into the bank and closed the account?” I can hardly believe the words coming from my mouth. “How much did he withdraw?”
More muffled speech. “You had about $300,000, give or take. He took $100,000 in cash, there was a wire transfer out for $147,000, and the remaining $53,000 he moved to a Coinbase wallet.”
“Coinbase?”
“It’s a site for holding and trading crypto.”
“Crypto.”
I’ve become a mimic. Get it together. “What do you mean, about $300,000? There should be close to $700,000 in there. We have it in that interest-bearing account you set up when Trey decided to pull our funds out of the stock market and hold cash.”
Leeann flips some pages. “You haven’t been holding cash. There have been pretty steady withdrawals over the past six months, plus several transfers to various accounts, including Coinbase.”
“Four hundred thousand dollars’ worth? This isn’t happening.”
“Yes, it would seem so. What’s wrong, Brook? Were you not aware of the transactions?”
“No.” Because I’m an idiot and I let my husband handle everything.
I hear her shuffling papers. “Well, this is absolutely your signature, unless it’s been forged.”
“Leeann, I don’t remember signing these papers, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I didn’t. Trey gives me paperwork to sign all the time. I’ve never stopped to challenge him on what it’s for. With as many investments as we have, there’s always something to sign.”
Leeann’s crisp professional tone is back.
“I’m making a note that while this signature could be legitimate, you didn’t know he was closing the account.
But since it’s probably not a forgery, that’s about all I can do.
This gets into some legal territory that will need greater oversight than I can provide. ”
“Can you at least trace the wire transfers?”
“Easier said than done. One of the Swift transfers yesterday was to a numbered account at a Swiss bank in Zurich. Which means it was an established account, more than ten years old, because the Swiss stopped letting people open numbered accounts when it started being abused, and various governments started showing up with warrants to look at their financials. But they service the older accounts. The odds of the money still being there are slim, though. If Trey was trying to disguise the transaction, I’m sure it has already been moved from that account to another.
Now, the crypto transfers, those are traceable—crypto has transaction signatures—but it’s challenging.
We will have to bring in a forensic accountant to investigate.
And even if we find them, if they’re in a wallet, we’d need the passcode to access it.
And the phone where the account is being processed, too. ”
At least I have his phone, assuming the accounts are on there.
Last night’s cryptic email is beginning to make more sense. I wish to God I’d screenshotted it, or the address it came from. I can contact my service provider and see if they have the record, but that’s a long shot.
“Why would Trey . . . Never mind. I’m in Atlanta, my cards aren’t working, and I need to get home. Once I have an idea what’s happened, I’ll come see you. Please don’t drop me as a client.”
“I would never. I’ll have to report this if it was done without your knowledge.”
“I understand. But can you wait for a day? Let me figure out what’s going on first?”
“For you, yes.”
“Great. I’ll be back in Nashville tomorrow.”
I debate calling Bob. Before I can, Margot’s face appears on my phone.
“Are you there? Have you heard from him?”
I try to stay calm. “No. And apparently, Trey has emptied all the accounts and hasn’t been paying the credit cards. Everything’s frozen. I can’t check into the hotel because they need a card for incidentals, and they won’t honor yours.”
“That son of a bitch. How dare he?”
“Be pissed later. I want to come home. I need to file the missing persons report in Nashville, not Atlanta.”
“That’s ridiculous. And bad news, the rental agencies are even more stringent than the hotels. They’re going to need a card, too. I already tried that. Since we decided an Uber isn’t safe, I’ll just come get you. You can just park it in the hotel lobby, they’ll let you, right?”
An idea flashes. Eden Barrow. I think about it for a minute.
Weigh the creep factor with the need to see my children safe and rested.
Weigh the chance to learn more about Trey’s supposed background against standing here in the total dark.
Weigh calling my uncle again and getting Trey into worse trouble than he already is.
Decision made.
“I hate the idea of you on those mountain roads after dark. I’ll get a cab back to the address of the woman from the airline. She was very happy to put us up. You can start first thing in the morning. We’ll be fine at Eden’s place tonight.”
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind. Gives me an excuse to make a latte, caffeine up . . .”
“Absolutely. Honestly, Margot, at this point, she’s probably the only lead I have. I wanted to find out more about what she thinks she knows about Trey anyway. I was going to call her tomorrow. I’ll send you the address.”
“Be careful, Brook. Something feels very wrong about all of this.”
“No kidding, sister. You be careful. He might come home.”
I force myself to stay calm and rational, not just collapse into a puddle and start crying. That’s going to get me nowhere. Instead, I send Eden a text.
Are you still up?
My phone rings a second later.
“Hi there. What’s up? News?”
“Not exactly. This is so embarrassing. I’m having a little credit card hiccup. The hotel—”
“Don’t say another word. The offer still stands. You are more than welcome to stay here. And I’ll get my detective friend to come by. We can . . . talk.”
“Thank you, Eden. We’ll be there in thirty.”
“Do you need me to come get you?”
“No, that’s fine. I have enough for the cab. My sister is coming down from Nashville in the morning. We’ll ride back with her. Thank you, seriously. We appreciate it.”
I’m not an idiot. I know this is chancy.
But Eden Barrow is the one tenuous link to my husband, and there’s no way for me to find the truth if I don’t go looking for it.
But just in case Eden is some sort of crazed axe murderer, it makes me feel better that there is external accountability. I text Margot.
All set. We’re on the way to Eden’s house. I dropped a pin on the address. She has a friend who is a detective meeting us. Will keep you informed.
I fight back the urge to text Trey this plan.
I haven’t made a move in ten years without him knowing exactly where I am.
This is insane. He would be able to track me—and vice versa—if he had his phone.
But he does have his backpack, with his laptop, and that means he still has access to the accounts.
And at least one hundred grand in cash, apparently, as well. That spark of fury lights again. What the hell is he up to?
I open the app and debate deleting the account but decide to hold off. Until I know exactly what’s going on, I want to leave at least one lifeline open.
Please reach out, I send to the ether. Please call and tell me what’s happening.
“All right, kids. Let’s go. We’re staying with Miss Eden tonight after all.”
They are slightly cheered at the prospect of pizza and ice cream, chattering happily as I get us a cab and head back toward the airport.